Page 30 of Queen of Anarchy (Dirty Broken Savages 2)

I drag a hand down my face and suck in another deep breath, filling my lungs with air and holding it before letting it out slowly. Gradually, my heartbeat slows down, and I stop feeling shaky and cold. I force all the pain and raw emotion back down where it belongs, imagining it as a little ball of pain, spiky and black, that I lock away and ignore.

Control settles over me, and I feel the tight, almost emotionless state that I prefer coming back.

Good.

I’m still a sweaty mess, so I get up and head for the shower. Along the way, I don’t think about anything. I don’t remember the screaming or the invisible hands. I keep my mind blank once I reach the bathroom too, focusing on the hiss of the water from the shower head and the smell of my soap as I wash the sweat and fear from my body.

The suds swirl down the drain, and I imagine them taking the last of the nightmare with them, even though I know it doesn’t quite work like that.

It helps, though.

When I step out of the shower and wipe the steam from the mirror, I look like myself again—the version of me I’ve been for so long now. My angular face is impassive, and my eyes don’t give away the pain of that nightmare. I can still feel it lingering at the edges of my mind, but it’s easier to ignore. Easier to move on from.

I’m back in control, so I run a comb through my hair, then get dressed and head downstairs.

River’s dog comes rushing up the stairs to greet me when I’m halfway down, whining softly before lapping at my hands in some weird animal form of comfort.

It’s like he can sense my distress from before, or he can smell it on me or something. But animals are like that. It’s why they usually don’t like me.

I pet Dog’s head, letting myself enjoy the feel of his soft fur beneath my fingertips.

“Alright, out of the way,” I say softly to him after a moment, nudging him back down the stairs. Despite my initial distrust of the mutt, I’ve come to like him. We have an understanding in a way.

It’s kind of the same thing with River herself.

Speaking of, when I step into the kitchen, she’s there, pouring coffee into a travel mug and clearly getting ready to head out.

“Where are you going?” I ask her, pleased when my voice comes out steady and even. There’s barely even a flash of the nightmare when I look at her, which is definitely progress. The last thing I want is for her to be able to tell something is wrong. I don’t want to talk about it.

But then, River is used to not wanting to talk about things herself. I doubt she’d push.

“I want to get a head start on trying to get that guest list,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Her nails are a new color today, one I’ve never seen her wear before—a soft pink that shimmers slightly as it catches the light. “I figured heading over first thing in the morning would mean fewer people to deal with.”

I nod, my gaze darting from her nails to her face. “I’ll come with you.”

The words are out of my mouth before I even realize I’m saying them, but I don’t take them back. Something settles in my chest at the thought of going with her, making sure she’s safe in all of this.

She hesitates for a second, looking like she wants to tell me no. I’m prepared to argue if I have to, but she ends up nodding.

“Yeah, okay.”

We head out, and she walks immediately toward her car.

Compared to the others in the driveway and garage, it’s a piece of shit. Hell, compared tomostother cars, it’s a piece of shit.

Rusted in patches, peeling paint. It probably started life out as a dark blue color, but now it’s faded to an almost gray. It looks like it’s older than she is, and it might just be. When she opens the driver’s side door, it groans as if the car itself isn’t looking forward to being driven.

I don’t say anything, just move to the passenger seat and get in. The leather is worn but comfortable, and River slams her door when she gets in, then opens it and closes it again for good measure.

When she goes to start the car, nothing happens. She rolls her eyes and tries the key again, which makes the engine try to turn over halfheartedly.

“Come on, you piece of shit,” she mutters under her breath, but she doesn’t seem overly worried about it.

She presses down on the brake a few times, then gets out of the car and lifts the hood. There’s a minute or so of fiddling under there, then she slams the hood back down and gets back in the car.

If I were Gage, I’d make some comment about her making so much noise this early in the morning and disturbing the neighbors, but I’m not, so I don’t.

Even so, River glances at me like she expects me to say something about her little car rituals, but I don’t. I just watch her fiddle and then turn the key again with a little almost-smile tugging at my lips.

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